A Study in Conversation
by Messr. Moony the Wolf
Summary: An evening in 221B and and conversation that explains Sherlock's present and John's future. Rated T for language. One-shot.


**AN: Hey guys! So this idea just popped up in my head, and it's far too adorable to ignore. Yes, I am also a fan of Sherlock. I'll just keep popping up everywhere until you can't go anywhere on FanFiction without seeing me. Consider yourselves warned. ;) So yep, here's a cute little Sherlock one-shot. Fluff everywhere. Fluff upon fluff upon fluff. So much fluff. I am drowning in the amount of fluff. So yeah. Here you go!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, it is the property of ACD and Moffat and Gatiss and maybe to BBC. I'm not sure. But of course it's not mine, or there would be Johnlock all over the place.**

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Rating: T (a bit of language, hints at mature themes)

Pairing: Johnlock

Setting: It doesn't really have one… probably Post-Reichenbach though. I'm making this up as I go.

Warning: There is a bit of language. Fair warning. Also, I'm an American and this hasn't been Brit-picked. Fair warning if the language fluctuates strangely been British-isms and American-isms.

Title: A Study in Conversation

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Doctor John Watson sighed wearily as he climbed the steps up to 221B. It had been a long day at the clinic, and there hadn't been anything more interesting than an over-abundance of sniffling children and one dislocated shoulder. It had been dull, boring, as Sherlock would say. But as he pushed open the door and tossed his key in the bowl, he was all too aware that his flatmate wasn't home. The flat was entirely silent, not to mention that Sherlock had texted him earlier in the day to tell him Lestrade had a case. John vaguely recalled something about a married couple, both dead and had there been something about dismemberment? He couldn't remember.

After shedding his coat and gloves (it had been a chilly day, but it was only March), John filled the kettle and put it on the stove to boil. He pulled down his mug and the tea. He waited for the water to boil, tapping the fingers of his left hand against the counter in impatience. When it was finally done, he switched off the stove and filled his mug. He put the tea in to steep and went to the fridge to get the milk. He opened it with some apprehension, and was relieved when there was only a bag of big toes on the bottom shelf, which had been designated as the 'experiment shelf.' John grabbed the jug of milk from the top shelf and went back to his tea. He added a dash and returned the milk to the fridge before grabbing his mug and retreating to the living room.

Sighing happily, John flopped down on the sofa, sprawled out with his head on the pillow closer to the door. He picked up his tea from where he'd put it on the table, letting out a contented sigh as he took a sip. He replaced the mug and began to search for the remote for the telly.

It took several minutes, but John eventually found it beneath the sofa, which forced him to contort his body so that his torso was hanging off the couch and his was resting upside down on the floor to get it. He flopped around for a minute, attempting to sit up again and praying that Sherlock wouldn't walk in because that would be extremely embarrassing. He didn't even want to think about the rant Sherlock would go on about how putting himself in that position meant he was a former athlete or something because of the way his fingers were splayed on the floor supporting him and John really didn't need to explain his life to Sherlock. Again.

He finally managed to sit up and shuffle himself into a comfortable position. He took another sip of his tea and switched on the telly. He flipped around through the channels, trying to find something rather pointless to distract him for a while. Until Sherlock came back, definitely. It took a while, but he finally came across some stupid American reality show that he figured wasn't too horrible. At least, it didn't seem interesting until he'd finished his tea and actually paid attention. Much to his embarrassment, John found himself thoroughly enthralled by the rather dramatic telling of someone meeting a person they had fallen in love with over Facebook.

"I need to get a more normal life," he muttered to himself as he shifted slightly and pulled the thin blanket on the back of the sofa haphazardly over his chest.

The peaceful quiet in the flat lasted precious little time longer. John was just feeling his eyelids start to get heavy when the door crashed open with a bang that sent him scrambling to his feet in blind panic.

"John, do sit down, you'll hurt yourself standing up so quickly." The familiar rich baritone vibrated through the once-still air in the flat, and John rubbed his eyes and sighed. When he opened them again, he was greeted by the sight of his tall flatmate hanging up his coat and scarf with a calm and self-satisfied air.

"Right, thanks for the concern," John muttered. When Sherlock looked at him with one eyebrow raised sarcastically (seriously, how was that even possible?), John cleared his throat and did not repeat his earlier statement.

"So, solved the case, have you?" Sherlock nodded, a slightly bored expression flickering over his face.

"Obviously John. It was clearly the woman's sister, who was jealous of her sister's husband and of her sister. It was spectacularly boring, though it was entertaining watching Anderson bumble around trying to follow the clues the same way I did. He is an idiot. Anyway, Lestrade believed me, especially once I pointed out the trail of footprints in the backyard and the fingerprints on the light switch in the front room. Painfully simple. The dismemberment was the only really interesting bit. I still haven't got an entirely concrete reason why she did that…" here, the world's only consulting detective trailed off mid-deduction, mumbling incoherently to himself about motives and the like. John rolled his eyes, though it was honestly an affectionate gesture, and went into the kitchen.

"Are you eating then? You've solved your case and I know you refused to eat yesterday, so you better be eating," John said with a mildly threatening tone. He heard Sherlock grumbling in the living room, but he didn't actually voice any real protest, so John reached into the drawer of take-away menus. He flipped through until he'd narrowed it down to two, and then stuck his head into the living room, where he saw Sherlock curled up in his armchair.

"Feel like Chinese or Thai?" he asked his crazy friend. Without removing his forehead from his knees, Sherlock called answer out into the quick silence.

"Chinese. I want sushi." The words were a bit muffled, but John got it anyway.

"Alright, I'll call it in." There was a muffled grunt in response as John went to get the phone.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O

Just over an hour later, John settled back in the kitchen chair. Sherlock had, for once, cleared the table of his crazy experiments and they'd been able to eat in the kitchen. Not that his flatmate had eaten much, but that was all right because he'd eaten something and that was better than nothing. After sitting back for a moment, John stood up, boxed the leftovers, and washed the dishes. He left them out on a dishtowel to dry and made himself a cup of tea before retreating to the living room again. Sherlock had vanished as soon as he'd eaten his meager portion, and John didn't really care where he was at this point. He just wanted to curl up and watch crap telly before going to bed.

Once he was settled on the couch in the exact same position he'd been in before Sherlock exploded into the flat, John switched on the telly. And, once again, nothing was really on, but that was all right because it meant he wouldn't get too involved in whatever came on. He settled for some sort of trivia show that asked pointless questions he didn't know the answer to and drank his tea contentedly.

John was just starting to drift off to sleep when a sudden warmth covered his body. He lazily opened an eye to check it out. Needless to say, he nearly jumped a foot in the air when he saw that it was Sherlock lying on top of him with his head on his chest, pulling a blanket over the two of them. It took John a minute to find his voice again.

"Er, Sherlock, what exactly are you doing?" Sherlock tilted his head up to give John one of his 'how-can-you-even-live-if-you're-this-unobservant' looks.

"I'm watching telly with you. Obviously."

"Yes, I can see that. What I meant was, why have you decided to lie on top of me as if I'm part of the sofa?"

"I don't think you're part of the sofa," Sherlock said, sounding a bit offended. "You had a look of complete contentment on your face, and you always get upset when I disturb you while you have that look. So I didn't move you, but yet you still seem upset." John was about to deliver an angry retort in reply, but stopped short once he realized what exactly Sherlock had just said. The self-proclaimed sociopath had actually considered his feelings before making a decision. This had to be a miracle.

"Oh. Uh, okay then." Sherlock turned his attention back to the telly and John was left to ponder exactly what prompted Sherlock to consider his feelings at this moment. The silence barely stretched for two minutes before someone spoke again.

"John, this is all right, yes?" John looked down at his friend, startled by the almost shy tone of his voice. Sherlock was looking up at him with a hesitant expression that made John ache for the detective.

"Sherlock, if it wasn't fine, do you really think I wouldn't have pushed you off?" A slight smile flickered across Sherlock's face.

"Of course, that's what I would've expected, but I'm not all that good at this…" The statement was accompanied by a vague hand gesture that made John frown.

"What do you mean by 'this' exactly?"

"Being… affectionate with people." The words rolled off of Sherlock's tongue in a slow, halting way that made John stop dead in his tracks and consider what exactly Sherlock's younger years must have been like if he was this uncomfortable with the concept of snuggling.

"Sherlock," he said slowly. "Are you trying to tell me that you've never had a proper snuggle in your life?"

A silent shake of his head was Sherlock's only answer. John felt his mouth fall open in amazement.

"You never had anyone to snuggle with? Not a cousin or a friend, or, so help me, a girlfriend? Or boyfriend? No one?" Sherlock gave an annoyed huff.

"Yes, John, that is what shaking one's head means." He paused for a moment. "And I did have one boyfriend, but we weren't all that…" He trailed off, clearly searching for the words. "I mean, we didn't really…"

"You didn't snuggle," John said flatly. "So what did you do? Did you just go out and then go back to your separate homes or flats or dorms?" Sherlock snorted again.

"We didn't even go on 'dates.' We went to each other dorms and, ah, satisfied each other. It wasn't exactly romantic." John blinked in amazement, partially because Sherlock actually admitted to having any sort of sexual desire and partially because Sherlock was actually telling him details of his college life.

"Sherlock, that's not a boyfriend. That's a fuck buddy. A boyfriend actually cares about you, beyond the sex. They want to make you happy, so they do things for you like taking you on dates and getting you presents. And snuggling." Now Sherlock's face was scrunched up in the way John knew meant he was thinking, most likely trying to understand feelings.

"John, you do realize that you just described our relationship?" John felt surprise, followed quickly by denial flicker over his face. Sherlock apparently noticed it as well, because he continued his explanation before John could interrupt.

"We don't get presents for each other in the way you obviously mean, but you make sure to get food and I make sure that there's nothing overly dangerous in the flat. You make me happy just by talking most times, and we go out to dinner all the time. And now we're snuggling. Was this an indirect way to admit feelings for me John?" John could only gape at his flatmate for a minute. When he regained control of his body, he immediately began to spit out old arguments.

"No, Sherlock, of course we're not boyfriends. We're friends, best friends, but there's no romantic intention for either of us. I mean-" Here, John had to stop short because the look on Sherlock's face was killing him. The usually strong and aloof genius looked like somebody had just crushed his every hope and dream. His face had fallen so far, it looked like he was about to cry. In fact, they were so close that John could see his lower lip trembling ever so slightly. John blinked, trying to figure out what he'd said wrong. Then it hit him and he winced slightly because he was an idiot.

"Er, Sherlock, did you, um, have romantic intentions? Towards me?" The detective sat up fluidly, curling up on the last cushion into the smallest ball he could manage, obviously trying to keep as far away from John as possible.

"Unimportant, obviously." John winced at the freezing cold tone of Sherlock's voice. The consulting detective rose smoothly from the sofa, obviously intending to flee into his bedroom, and John surprised them both by jumping up and grabbing his arm, holding the taller man in place. Sherlock turned back to him with one eyebrow raised questioningly. His cold, distant face was back, and John sought to make it go away.

"Look, it's fine if you do. I'd just like to know about it, okay? It's fine. It's all fine." John attempted a consoling smile, but he wasn't sure it came out right. Sherlock was staring at him intently, and John felt rather like he was being looked at under a microscope. After a moment, the detective spoke.

"I can't tell," he said with a frown. "I can always tell. When did you become impossible to read?" John blinked up at him in confusion.

"Er, sorry, what do you mean, exactly?" Sherlock huffed in frustrated annoyance, throwing himself down in his favorite chair.

"I always know about you. I always know what you're thinking. I can always predict your reactions. And now…" The younger man gestured helplessly. John blinked and tried to piece together an appropriate answer.

"Well," he said slowly. "We could have a conversation. Like normal people do." Sherlock looked up at him, nose scrunched up in some strange mixture of confusion and anger.

"John, that's boring. Normal is boring. I don't do normal. You know that." John huffed with annoyance and threw himself down in his own chair.

"Look Sherlock, I know all that. But let's face it; you're not normal when it comes to feelings. Honestly, there was a point when I wasn't sure you even _had _feelings. This… I honestly didn't expect this." Sherlock looked away, staring fixedly into the dark fireplace. John waited patiently.

"I've never done this," he said suddenly in his deep, vibrating baritone. He looked up at John. "How does this talking thing work?"

John found a grin slowly spreading across his face. Sherlock looked so confused and innocent and all John wanted to do was shelter him.

"Well," he said slowly and carefully. "It happens differently every time. It depends on what you need to say. Sometimes, it's better to just spit it out. I always thought that was better." Sherlock rested his hands beneath his chin in his usual thinking pose, staring contemplatively at John. Suddenly, the detective's mouth opened and a flood of words spilled out.

"I have thought on this topic extensively. I have noticed that when I attempt to delete any memory involving you, it remains. Quite annoying. When I examined the reasons in my mind palace, I was most alarmed to discover that an entire room had somehow popped up without my knowledge. I was also quite startled when I saw that the room consisted of nothing but you. I examined every inch of the room and, after much deliberation, I have come to the conclusion that there is no explanation for my continued interest in you other than I must have feelings for you beyond friendship." John blinked, startled by the sudden influx of emotional information.

"Oh. Um, okay. Well, good that you got that off your chest, I guess," John said slowly. Sherlock's eyebrows came together, confusion radiating out of his face.

"Is this not the point where you would either reciprocate or deny my emotions?" Sherlock asked. John shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Sherlock tilted his head slightly to the side.

"Oh," the younger man said quietly. "Oh, I see. You don't respond because you don't reciprocate, but you don't want to hurt my feelings. It's fine John. I'd rather you tell the truth." By the end of his little speech, Sherlock was staring fixedly at his knees, and John, much to his surprise, felt his heart break a little.

"Sherlock," John said softly. He meant to go on, but his throat closed up and he couldn't form words any longer. He was pretty sure he could feel his heart breaking into smaller and smaller pieces for the younger man. He cleared his throat and tried again.

"Sherlock, that's not right," he said firmly. The detective looked up at him, his face blank but his eyes were flickering with some deep emotion.

"You are partially right. I don't think I'm in love with you right now. But," he plowed on when Sherlock's eyes darkened. "I do know that there is no way that I can bear to break your heart. I think… I think that I can try, try to, to, I don't know, be with you, I guess? I'm not sure what I'm trying to say…. I think that maybe I want to try loving you." John tore his eyes away from his flatmate, unable to deal with the confusing emotions racing through him. For a moment, there was silence.

"Do you mean that?" Sherlock's deep voice was quiet and hesitant as he gently probed the doctor. John took a deep breath and looked up at his friend.

"Yes, I do. I know that when you're around, I can only focus on you. I know that I rush away from my dates when you call because I worry about you. I care about you more than any girl I've ever dated. Ever. And when you were… away, I couldn't stop thinking about you. I couldn't move on. My life is boring without you Sherlock. I need you. Otherwise, I'll slowly suffocate."

John finished his little explanation and found Sherlock staring at him, wide-eyed with amazement. Slowly, and without a word, Sherlock stood up and took John's hand, pulling the doctor up to stand with him. Then, without warning, Sherlock leaned down and placed a simple, chaste kiss on John's lips.

It wasn't passionate, or fiery, or even particularly romantic. It was sweet and innocent, and just what John needed. Because the moment Sherlock's lips brushed ever so softly against his, John knew that this was good. It felt so _right _for the detective's long, lanky arms to be loosely curled around him, so right to have his own fingers gently curling in Sherlock's wild black hair. When the detective pulled away, John kept his eyes closed for a moment and gently held the back of Sherlock's neck to keep their foreheads resting against each other. For a minute, they just breathed together, reveling in the feeling of closeness and intimacy that they had never shared before. Finally, John pulled away just enough that Sherlock could stand up straight again.

"I think," John said carefully and quietly. "That I can inform you with a high degree of certainty that this is a very, very good idea." Sherlock's baritone chuckle rumbled from his chest and John's own higher chuckles were quick to join in.

"Could we maybe go back to the couch?" Sherlock asked softly. John nodded and let the younger man tug him over. He let Sherlock gently nudge him down so he was back to lying as he had been before and let Sherlock curl up on top of him.

"Here, try laying on your side, facing the telly on the outer edge of the couch," John instructed. Sherlock did as the doctor suggested, and John carefully rolled over behind him so they were chest-to-back, spooning on the sofa. John tucked a pillow under his own head and Sherlock claimed the doctor's arm for his own pillow. For a long time, the only sounds in 221B were the various noises from the telly and soft breathing. When the movie that had been playing on television finally finished, John tilted his head down to look at Sherlock. The consulting detective was staring intently at the screen, obviously absorbed in one thought or another. John waited patiently for the younger man to look up at him, and when he did, the doctor couldn't help but smile fondly.

"I think it's time for bed, yeah? Are you sleeping tonight?" Sherlock's mouth twisted in thought.

"Will you be there?"

John blinked, thrown off by the question.

"Sorry, what?" Sherlock sighed with annoyance.

"Will you, John, sleep with me in my bed? And no, I do not mean have sex, I mean sleep." John couldn't help the bark of laughter that escaped him at Sherlock's words. When he saw the affronted look on his flatmate's face, he immediately backtracked.

"No, no Sherlock, I'm not laughing at the idea, I'm laughing because you clarified that you don't want to have sex in the most calm and scientific voice I've ever heard anyone say the word 'sex' in. And, as a matter of fact, I would quite enjoy sleeping in your bed with you." Sherlock's face relaxed at the doctor's words, and John felt himself relax in an immediate response. The detective rose gracefully from the couch, and John scrambled up after him. Sherlock turned and headed for his own bedroom, but froze when he saw John moving towards the stairs to his own room.

"Where are you going?" John looked back when he heard the confused and naive tone of Sherlock's voice. He offered a gentle smile.

"Don't worry love, I'm just going to get some sleep clothes and brush my teeth and I'll come straight down, all right?" Sherlock nodded, relief written all across his unusually open features, and headed for his room.

John took the stairs two at a time and changed faster than he ever had in his life. He brushed his teeth with quick, hurried movements before flying down the stairs. He took a deep, calming breath before walking into Sherlock's room.

"I'm not in here waiting to pounce on you, you know." John felt a grin spread across his face as Sherlock's amused voice carried around the corner. He entered the sparsely furnished room and hopped up on the bed before he could over think what he was doing.

"Sorry, but in my defense, you never really know with you." John's grin widened as Sherlock laughed out loud as he settled on the bed wearing his usual blue striped pants and gray t-shirt. Sherlock's laughter died down, and the two men just stared at each other for a minute. John cleared his throat.

"How do you sleep? Do you kick or anything? I don't really fancy waking up with surprise bruises." Sherlock wordlessly shook his head and reached out to shut off the lamp. The room was plunged into darkness. John felt long, spindly fingers gently nudge his shoulder, encouraging him to lie down. The doctor gently shifted down and let Sherlock's fingers guide him. He fought the instinct to pull away and give the detective his space when he felt his head finally rest down on what was obviously Sherlock's chest. Then Sherlock's fingers began gently massaging his scalp and John felt his entire body relax almost instantly. He blinked sleepily before letting his eyes drift shut.

"G'night Sherlock," he managed to mumble out as he drifted off.

He thought he heard a quiet "Goodnight John" before he fell asleep completely.

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**AN: Well, I warned you about the copious amounts of fluff, didn't I? So yeah, that was that. I hope you liked it! It was just a little something I needed to get off my chest so I can continue with my longer stories. They're called The Dark Times, which is an Avengers story, and Starkid and the Marauders, which is a Starkid story. Okay, so I might be writing some more one-shots, but I'm not sure if and when they'll come. Thanks for reading!**

**~Moony**


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